


Their Eloquence

by nathaniel_hp



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-13
Updated: 2014-02-13
Packaged: 2018-01-12 05:43:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 610
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1182589
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nathaniel_hp/pseuds/nathaniel_hp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They were both men of action. They did rather than said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Their Eloquence

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [come_at_once](come-at-once.livejournal.com) 24-hour-porn challenge on LJ.  
> Prompt: Action is eloquence.

**Their Eloquence**

John Watson and Greg Lestrade were both men of action. They did rather than said.  
In words, their rel- what they had – what was it even? – was silence and stammers. Lots of what-ifs: what if … someone sees us – what if … Sherlock deduces – what if … - what if … - what, yes, what _if._

Stolen time, stolen touches. Like teenage boys. John had fond memories of afternoons in his parents’ house, back when he’d been a teen. When he and Mags locked themselves in his room. And kissed. And touched. And fumbled. And fucked. Only they’d never called it that.

Two middle-aged men turned into teenage boys. Stolen time and stolen touches. Only they did not lock themselves in John’s room (not when sharing a flat with one Sherlock Holmes), they met at Greg’s, whose wife had moved out last month. And kissed and touched and fumbled and fucked. Only they never called it that.

A string of girlfriends who left because he didn’t have time, because he spent too much time with Sherlock, because he spent so much time with Sherlock that he forgot the current girlfriend was not Natasha but Stephanie. Stephanie who’d been the last. A string of girlfriends and still people assumed about him and Sherlock.

Only it wasn’t Sherlock. It was Sherlock’s fault, yes. Somehow it was Sherlock’s fault. Had to be. Wasn’t everything always Sherlock’s fault ever since John had moved into Baker Street?

Sherlock’s fault, though he hadn’t even been there. Or had he? Wasn’t like Sherlock to miss his own funeral.

A comforting embrace at the funeral, repeated at Baker Street when they picked up John’s stuff. An embrace and the tiniest hint of lips pressed onto the soft skin beneath John’s ear.

John had never asked why Greg was getting divorced. John would never ask. He could guess. Perhaps he was wrong. But did it matter?

An embrace and the tiniest hint of lips. John taking a step back. Greg clearing his throat. None of them saying a word for fear of making this a real thing. They stumbled into each other’s arms, tumbled to the floor amidst John’s bags and clothes.

Tentative hands, creeping and stopping, stammering towards touch. Lips, remaining silent, barely touching. That’s how it started – stammering and stumbling. They stumbled over their words, their breath stuttered when they lay entangled, guiltily enjoying the warmth, the touch, the skin, the other.  
They stumbled toward each other, again and again and again. They were both men of action. They did rather than said.

Doing was fine as long as John didn’t think about it, didn’t talk about it. They never did.

They never could. John’s mouth pressed onto Greg’s skin; Greg’s tongue trailed down John’s body. Their mouths travelled and explored, learnt more than they could have told in words.

“Appendectomy,” John thought as his tongue trailed along the raised scar tissue. “Oh god,” he thought as his mouth ghosted over pubic hair and found the soft skin of Greg’s cock.

He shivered when Greg’s fingers explored the broken skin on his shoulder blade. He moaned when Greg began to plant a trail of kisses down his neck, down his chest, down, down.

His grunts said _Yes, yes, oh yes_ as he pounded into Greg, matched by Greg’s moans, which answered _Yes, fuck yes._

Afterwards, they sat in silence on the edge of the bed that until recently Greg had shared with a wife.

“Greg, I – we – I mean –“

“Don’t,” Greg whispered, and hands and lips took over the talking.

They were both men of action. They did rather than said. And they were good at it. Action was their eloquence.  



End file.
